I Am Filled

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.

—Matthew 5:6

I filled the raft with air, planning a quiet afternoon of lounging in the pool.

There’s nothing so sweet as the slow days of summer.

Except, of course, when you have a houseful of bored children. And then the slow days of summer become a constant tension between planning activities together and praying—please, dear God in heaven!—that the first day of the new school year will soon arrive.

So maybe I’m not up for Mother of the Year. Almost overnight, I go from counting down the final days of the school year to counting down the days until school finally begins again in the fall. The never-ending glory and guilt of motherhood.

That day, exhausted from our new summer routine, I put my three littlest children down for a short afternoon nap. Then, wooed by the silence, I climbed into the pool. Just myself, a single blue raft, and sixty minutes of silent solar bliss.

Within minutes of relaxing in the sun, though, I started to sink. I felt the cold water climbing up my arms and legs, soon covering my waist and making its way toward my chest.

So much for my failproof flotation device. The raft had a leak and already needed a refilling. I could try to fix it. But that could take a half hour or more, a big slice of my sixty minutes. Instead, I blew the raft up one more time and climbed on.

Ahhhhhhhh.

Five minutes later, the water started to creepy-crawl back up my chilled body. For the next forty-five minutes, I climbed in and out of the pool, alternately blowing up the raft and attempting to lounge. Finally, I gave up.

So much for uninterrupted solar bliss.

Allow me to be blunt here. Sometimes I feel like a leaky raft. In spite of my regular attempts at solitude and self-care, I always seem in need of refilling. I seek more affection from my husband. More affirmation from my friends. More encouragement from my children. They try, honestly they do. But within moments of their filling, I feel myself leaking.

And I wonder, Is the problem with their efforts or with my raft?

More often than not, I blame my emptiness on them.

Sound familiar?

Here’s the million-dollar question (brace yourself; it’s not an easy one): What, exactly, do we want when we feel we’ve gone empty?

In my more honest moments, I’d say I crave comfort. And peace. And an absence of tension and conflict. I want a life that goes according to plan, without any surprises. I want my children to make good decisions. I want my husband to meet all my needs. I want to eat chocolate donuts and drink lattes without gaining a single pound. Because hello—chocolate donuts and lattes.

In addition to comfort, did I mention I also want control? And calm. And finances that never run out. And food that magically appears on the dinner table.

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled” (Matt. 5:6).

Jesus’ words interrupt my whiny list of wants. Righteousness? Hungering for chocolate donuts sounds easier. Hungering for righteousness sounds like hard work.

Besides, what exactly does it mean to “hunger and thirst for righteousness”? I like the promise of being filled, but I’m not so sure about the how-to.

Simply, righteousness means to be right with God, to be justified. Not a bad thing. Problem is the Bible says I can do nothing to make that happen. Like trying to keep a leaky raft filled, there is no amount of effort I can expend to justify myself before a holy God. That’s why God sent Jesus to become our righteousness. His death paid our price, patched our holes, allowing the righteousness of God to cover and fill. That means, in Christ, you and I stand whole before God, even while we’re still very wrong.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.

Righteousness is a tough concept to wrap a mind around. I confess I don’t always grasp its requirements or my inability to meet them. Jesus’ substitutionary gift on my behalf is beyond my ability to grasp.

And yet the price has been paid, the gift given, even when you and I don’t always understand it.

I want nothing more than to want Him. To open my hungry self to His filling, knowing that only in Christ can my heart be full.

No more leaky raft, no more whining to husband and children and friends, “Fill me!”

Instead, wholeness before Holiness.

Filled.

There is no sweeter manner of living in the world than in continuous communion with God.

—BROTHER LAWRENCE, THE PRACTICE OF THE PRESENCE OF GOD